The grass felt different under her feet, the soft tickle of the blades between her toes now almost nonexistent. As she floated across the open grassy plain, she thought back to better days, when this piece of land was rich with the sounds of children playing ball games, friends bathing in the warm summer sun, laughing and joking away while the bees buzzed around. Now this space felt cold, empty of the sounds of joy that once were, it was mid August, at least she thought it was, and yet there wasn’t a soul to be seen. The presence of a thick mist began to fill the air, the sun should be here, yet it was still so cold.

Her memory of her last visit here was hazy, was she with friends, enjoying the summer sun? No, it was a date, a first date. She tried to remember as she circled the field again, it was late evening she was sure, she remembered the smell of bbqs burning their final embers, trailing from the nearby cul-de-sac. It was hidden behind the rows of bushes and brambles that outlined the playing fields, ripe with sweet, blackberries and gooseberries. Though somehow, today, those bushes seemed wild, unkempt and unruly, as though their keepers had given up, the berries had a stench that would send the strongest stomach sick.

She carried on circling, why couldn’t she remember? She looked across the field, the mist had landed now, she strained to see other side, the row of bramble, but nothing, the mist fogged her vision along with her memories. She dared to stray from her circular walk, venturing through the mist, until it completely surrounded her. The grass felt wet below her feet as she continued journey to find the edge again, she heard a whisper, her name, lingering in the air around her, but she didn’t recognise the voice. Who was it? it was haunting, slow and snake like, it whispered again, she tried to follow it but the more she felt she was getting close, the more her feet sank into the now boggy field.

As she tried to run back to the brambles she felt an enormous sense of dread, her feet heavier with every step, she couldn’t see them for the mist but the ground became warm and sticky around her. She tried again to remember the last time she was here, and why it had changed so much, flashes of memories jumped across her minds eye, it was definitely a date, he was quiet but made her laugh. They drank wine and ate fresh strawberries on a blanket under the dusk sky, she remembered the Pinot going straight to her head, and how he stroked her flushed cheeks. As she fought with the boggy ground her sense of dread heightened, wading through she stumbled over a large heavy object, she began to kneel, straining to see the obstruction through the fog.

She got closer and began to tremble, the bog she had been wading through was filled blood. She saw it, the dress she wore that evening, ripped and saturated, she remembered. The last time she was here, was the night she died.

His biceps raged with a burn he hadn’t felt before, sweat seeping from the seam of his sports cap, his rep speed unlike anything he’d ever displayed. Could this be it? could he finally prove them all wrong? ‘Why not me? 3 years of hard training, its my time!’ These thoughts raced through his mind repeatedly, timed with the rhythmic thumping of his heartbeat.

Deyton Jill was a small, sliver of a man, barely a man as he had just turned 18 that summer. His parents were the athletic type, Dad played football, golf, squash and enjoyed a bit of swimming, his step mum ran, park runs, 10ks, even taking part in marathons if she felt like it. The family held memberships at the local gym, sports club and the nearby sailing club at the lake. As a child Deyton hated competition, taking solace in the tranquility of the sailing clubs fishing trips, but ‘fishing isn’t a real sport’ his parents would claim, so, at 15, Deyton decided to take up rowing, at least he was still in a boat.

As he repeated his chant to himself the sound of adrenaline pumping through his body threatend to disrupt his rhythmic flow. Deyton thought about the last 3 years, how he would train late into the night because he ‘couldn’t compete without building mass’, how the posh arseholes with lucky genes, who seemed to effortlessly beat him in every competition, would taunt him and his slight appearance daily. ‘Why. Not. Me? Its. My. Time!’ The finish line seemed so close, and yet a million, nautical, miles away. There wasn’t anyone in front of him, at a glance there wasn’t anyone either side of him. He darent look behind him, he can’t break focus now. Deyton chants his mantra a few more times, it’s within grabbing distance, they won’t catch him now surely.

She sat facing the shoreline, her salt coated brunette locks floated gently in the evening summer breeze. I couldn’t see her face, I could just make out her silhouette in the back drop of the west coast sunset. It was the first time I had set eyes on her, and yet I felt that pull toward her, as though she was a magnet, and I a fleck of iron, edging closer to her.

Strangers are a common sight here, the long beige beaches, open seas and mystical history brought revellers from across the globe, but she, she was different. She had arrived that afternoon, but it felt as though she had been here forever, as though she had always been sat right there in the sand.

What was it that brought on the feeling of belonging, and worth, and love, like kindred souls destined to find each other. I took a deep breath, and I lowered myself next to her, slowly so not to disturb the trance like state she was in.

I wasn’t really someone who put any faith in anything, taking life as it came, no higher power, god or deity got my prayers. I never understood why people where so fascinated with the idea of ancient beings, or why people flocked to my quiet corner of the world, in search of some kind of answer to an unanswerable question, in the shorelines and hills that surrounded us. But they did.

She was tracing out a swirling sun in the sand in front of her, over and over again, while her eyes remained focused on the coming tide, unfazed by my presence.

‘Take my hand’, a low yet almost song like voice chimed ‘take my hand and let me show you the way’.

I hesitated, I don’t even know why I sat down with her, but I couldn’t help myself. I questioned ‘why?’ I wanted to resist, unwilling to hear the ramblings of yet another mystic pilgrim, preaching stories of ancient goddesses that rode the shorelines, of white witches and healing mists from the seas.

‘I need to show you, so you can finally understand why your here’ she whispered. She took my right hand in her left, while never breaking her gaze at the sea or her tracing of the sand. For a moment I felt an overwhelming sense of peace, then nothing. Then it was as if we had been transported, not to a different place, but to a different time, the sand, the tide, all the same, but every other person had gone. What was bustling beach now lay empty, aside from us.

I can’t tell you what changed inside me that day, I can’t tell you who she was, or where she came from, but she moved me, like I’d never been moved before.

There’s a crash at the end of the street Piercing in the summer heat Stopping you dead on your feet The screaming is hardly discrete

The van hit a wall you see Then bounced back into a tree Where old Tom sat with a cup of tea He’s dead, between you and me

His poor wife had popped to the loo Luckily, or she’d be dead too Such a tragic event, that much is true All in a golden afternoon, under the skies of cloudless blue

She smiles, and waves They watch her leave But it’s not her As she turns

Alone, at home She watches the leaves That’s her Where they can’t see

There’s people, sort of They’re there for her But are they And it’s not really her

Alone, at home Where she watches the leaves That’s really her She doesn’t want them to see